Broken
by damigella
Summary: After 7x23 House lands in jail, and risks losing his license, his freedom, and his mental sanity. To save him Wilson has to face a terrible choice. H/W strong friendship, romance. Warning: very explicit violence. Character death  not House or Wilson .
1. Chapter 1 of 3

Chapter 1

House felt like a complete idiot.

He looked back at the past day and he couldn't make sense of his own actions. Why had he crashed the car into Cuddy's house? He could have been a murderer now. Sure, he had seen them go to the kitchen, but they could have come back. Or (he shuddered at the thought) Rachel could have run back alone. He could also have killed himself. And yet it had seemed like a reasonable thing to do. First he had wanted to smash Cuddy's window with her brush, and then… then he just thought using the car would be funnier. Very funny indeed.

He must have been crazy. Possibly an effect of too much Vicodin and too much alcohol, mixed with the painkillers they had given him in the hospital.

Wilson could have stopped him, of course, but he couldn't very well say it was his fault. Wilson. God. He could have killed Wilson. Then they wouldn't have needed to lock him up in prison, because he would have killed himself, too. Instead, he was now going to spend who knows how much time in jail, possibly the rest of his life. How he had even hoped to make it out of the country was also a question, and one that showed how badly his brain had been working. By the time he had arrived at the airport, they were waiting for him. They'd been very discreet, and just "accompanied him" for questioning. He had been so high when he arrived in prison he had hallucinated the interrogation room was a tiki bar and the corridor to his cell a tropical beach.

Luckily when he regained his senses Wilson had answered after the first ring, and had brought him some necessities for the night; toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and Vicodin. They hadn't wanted to allow it at first, but Wilson had made an outrageous fuss and threatened to have them all sued until their bank accounts bled to death, and they relented for the night. Wilson. Wilson with his sprained wrist in a splint, who hadn't even scolded him. He just nodded when House had tried to say he was sorry, and nodded again when he said he'd been acting like a criminal idiot because he was stoned. When House said he wanted to detox again, Wilson had smiled a bit, and answered "We'll see to that. Together."

The thought of being forced to detox while in jail scared him. He wished so much he had gone drinking with Wilson instead. He was so exhausted that he finally fell asleep.

* * *

><p>Wilson waited, his head in his hand, the one which wasn't into a splint. His heart ached at the thought that House was probably starting to detox right now, in a cell in that same building. The idea made him almost sick. Unless the prison's top medical officer had granted Wilson's request, which was unlikely. At least soon he would plead in person for his friend.<p>

"Dr. Wilson, you may come in now. Dr. Collins is waiting for you."

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson, sit down please."

"Thank you for seeing me so fast, Dr. Collins. It's really urgent."

"I've seen your documentation, and I've granted Dr. House methadone therapy for the next three days. In fact, he should already have gotten his first dose. For a long term perspective, I'll need to go through everything you submitted. Plus, there are some issues that I'd feel more comfortable discussing during my leisure time, especially since I'm very busy here. Will you join me for drinks tomorrow night?"

Wilson was surprised, but not too much. There were some irregularities (to say the least) in House's medical files, and an office inside a prison was probably not the best location to mention them. He nodded, and Collins pulled out one of his cards, scribbled an address and a time, and handed it to Wilson. "Call me if you can't make it, and we'll reschedule."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Collins. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

><p>A reprieve. Three days of methadone, the guard had said, watching him while he swallowed thankfully. He felt better immediately after, not because the effect was so fast but because he was giddy with relief. Three days. He should be worried. But he was so happy at the thought of three whole pain free days that he decided not to think of the future.<p>

A memory came back from the Sunday school: _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof_. Indeed, House decided, and he lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes with a sigh.

* * *

><p>Wilson had googled the address, and had been surprised to see it was a high-class private club. Rumors were that anyone but WASP Republican males was still unwelcome as a club member, but maybe this was just gossip. He dressed at his best, and brought along a copy of House's medical file.<p>

He was shown in a private room, with two elegant couches and a coffee table. Collins was already waiting for him, and Wilson noticed that even in this informal setting the man issued self-assurance and a quiet authority. Maybe it went with his job.

A waiter came to take their orders, then returned with their drinks, politely mentioning he would come back only if called and leaving the bottles behind. When he left, Collins's eyes focused on Wilson. "I went through Dr. House's file. There are several, how shall I put it, anomalies. The main one seems to be that he forged your signature on all of his recent Vicodin scripts and didn't even try to hide this fact."

"I… uh… had allowed him to do that. I was very busy and had no time. It's my fault."

"Dr. Wilson, you know such a declaration will only send your own license in the trash can without saving Dr. House's. On the basis of these documents, I should stop any opiates completely."

"And let him detox in jail? The pain was terrible even in Mayfield… he would die this time. Or go insane."

"I agree, Dr. Wilson. There's another reason besides my lack of time why we're discussing this here, and not in my office."

"What do you mean?"

Wilson was scared and agitated, but he saw Collins was very calm. "Dr. Wilson, have you ever wondered why I chose to become a prison doctor?"

* * *

><p>"Hi, House."<p>

"Hi, Wilson. How much did you have to pay to arrange for a personal interview?'

"Nothing, it's one of my privileges as your physician. But we're being recorded, remember. That closed door is just an illusion of privacy."

"They told me. Still, an illusion is better than nothing."

"How are you?"

"Better, for the moment. The methadone works very well, and my leg seems to be healing right on schedule. No infection."

"That's almost unbelievable, but good to know. I have arranged for you to get a series of tests, mostly on your brain, to see if we can prove you were not responsible for what you did."

"That would be a great thing, because what I did…"

Wilson put his finger to his lips. "Don't say it."

"Well, let me just say I'm very, very sorry. I'm especially sorry about hurting you."

"It's nothing, really. Look, I'll take off the splint so you can see. Here."

House fingers carefully checked Wilson's wrist, and Wilson felt their warmth go through to his heart. And then he thought of the near future. Oh God. The future.

"House, you'll have to detox."

"I know. Hell, I _want_to detox. The question is where and how."

"On the where, unfortunately, there's no discussion. Here. The standard approach would be total opiate withdrawal, starting tomorrow.".

Terror flashed immediately in his eyes, but House didn't say anything for a while. Then he sighed. "I should have thought of that. Are there realistic other options?"

Wilson passed the fingers of his right hand through his hair, then breathed hard, trying to calm down. "I have contacted a pain management specialist, who has proposed a more gradual approach, with methadone being scaled down while other pain control methods are introduced. It would take about a month."

"That sounds perfect. I'll probably be stuck here a month anyway, until my pre-trial audience. So what's the problem?"

Wilson sighed loudly. "It's much harder to obtain permission, especially because of your… precedents. In fact, very hard. I will have to do… something I'm not quite comfortable with."

Wilson couldn't say more. In fact, he shouldn't have said this either. But he was frightened, and he needed reassurance. He needed to know House was really committed to detoxing. Wilson stared at House intensely, hoping to somehow communicate with him without words.

House stared back. "You mean, I better be serious about it."

"Yes, House. You will not get a second chance to do it so easily." Wilson felt his stomach get upset, a bitter bile taste in his mouth.

"Wilson, are you sick?"

"I think I'll skip the cafeteria curry from now on. Whatever they put in it, it doesn't agree with me." He looked at House, then he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire. A need. He spoke before he could change his mind. "House, can you hold my hand?"

House looked back uncomprehendingly, then even more puzzled once he realized Wilson meant the right hand. "Won't I hurt your wrist?"

"No. Just be careful. Touch… touch my fingers. Don't ask questions. Just do it, please, and forget it afterward."

House seemed completely confused, but when his eyes met Wilson's he apparently sensed the desperation in him, because he got hold of Wilson's hand and caressed finger after finger silently, while Wilson struggled to hold back his tears.

House looked concerned. "Are you in pain?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. No questions, House, please. Just do what I ask you to."

They remained silent, House's fingers on Wilson's until the prison guard came to tell them that their time was over.

* * *

><p>Wilson sat at home, the telephone in front of him. He looked at his watch. Five thirty. Still half an hour to take a decision. A decision. Why did <em>he<em>have to decide? Why couldn't someone do it for him? He wanted to say no. He pretty definitely wanted to say no.

He looked at House's test results again, at the reports from the psychiatrist he had consulted. There were good chances that House had really not been in control of his actions, the meds he had been given shouldn't have been mixed with either Vicodin or alcohol, and House hadn't been told about this upon discharge. In fact, he shouldn't have been discharged at all - AMA discharge was of course not an option for psychiatric patients, and House should have been one.

House had wanted to inflict Cuddy's property some damage, but he had been unable to estimate what the risks were to himself, to everyone who was or might have been in the house, and to Wilson. The psychiatrist said that he probably thought the only effect would be the glass shattering. Crazy, but not criminal. Or at least not as criminal.

And now this man who had been through so much pain was supposed to go through so much more. The psychiatrist had been clear: House may very well die if forced to undergo a sudden detox without proper medical care, and his sanity would almost certainly have permanent damages. He and the pain specialist had warmly recommended the slower protocol, but an expert lawyer (that Wilson had finally managed to find with Stacy's grudging help) had told him that such requests were basically never granted, and that only a very favorable report of the prison's medical officer could tilt the decision in House's favor. He said such reports were few and far between, and seemed to consider it impossible that House, with his precedents, would get one.

Five forty. Wilson felt his stomach knot up. He removed the splint. Looked at his hand. Turned it, looked at the fingers from every side. Touched them and closed his eyes, trying to repeat House's massage. At least there had been no questions. Wilson knew what he had to do, and what he wanted to do, and they were not the same. He would have vomited if he hadn't already done so for most of the afternoon.

Finally, an image came to his mind unprompted, that of House breaking his own hand to face a week without Vicodin. Suddenly in Wilson's mind what he wanted and what he needed coalesced into one and the same. It was five forty-seven. Wilson picked up the phone, and wasn't surprised when after just one ring he heard a voice he had already learned to dread say "Dr. Collins speaking" at the other end of the line.


	2. Chapter 2 of 3

**Chapter 2**

"Hi, House."

"Hi, Wilson. We're back with a glass wall between us, I see."

"I get a personal physician visit, as they call it, once a week. This is a visit as a friend."

"Yes, Thirteen has been here twice already."

"Who else?"

House tried to keep his voice quiet, and hoped that no bitterness escaped. "No one. Except you."

"No one?" Wilson's eyebrows skyrocketed.

"Who should I have expected? My mother's too sick for such a trip, and who else cares for me? Thirteen looked quite disgusted by what I'd done, but she just said I had helped her when in prison and it was her turn now."

"No one else? What about the rest of your team? C..." Wilson stopped abruptly.

"Cuddy won't see me ever again, Wilson. She's obtained a restraining order. Which means I also will have to change my job. In the assumption that I get out of jail alive and I get my license back, neither of which is likely at the moment."

This time House knew he had sounded bitter. He _was_ bitter, damn it. His life lay broken around him, and while he had a lot of responsibility, he also had had a lot of very bad luck. Including Cuddy's decision to dump Lucas for him, then to dump him for failing to be what she knew from the beginning he wasn't. It all had started when Wilson had thrown him out of the condo, breaking his post-Mayfield promise; had he been living with Wilson at the time of the crane collapse…

House forced himself to go back to the present, and to the fact that now Wilson was there for him. He looked sick and desperate, actually, and he had been behaving strangely - but maybe this was just a misperception, everything seemed strange in jail.

"House, how's detox going?"

"Well, two days are a bit early to say, but it's much better than Mayfield. At least now I'm just scared of doing time, not of the detox. You said you had to work hard to obtain it. I'll repay you any expenses, that is, assuming I have any money left when they unfreeze my account - at the moment it's blocked until the civil court trial about Cuddy's damages is over."

There was deep pain in Wilson's eyes. Could he be worried about his money? He should have been, of course, but he never really seemed to care how much he gave House. "Wilson?"

Wilson shook his head, his vacant expression became focused on House again. "Sorry, I'm… I'm very tired. I'm glad to know the protocol works so far. I brought you some frozen home-made pancakes. They told me they'll warm them up for you and you can have two a day. Please be very polite, you don't have a right to warm non-prison food and they made a special exception."

House smiled and thanked him, just as the guard came and touched his shoulder: the interview was over. Wilson put his fingertips on the partition glass, and House spread his own to match them, mimicking a physical contact they couldn't have. As he walked away, he turned one last time and saw Wilson staring at him. Weird. He was smiling but his eyes seemed brimming with tears.

* * *

><p>"How come you're wearing a cast now?"<p>

Wilson winced. He looked very tired.

"I already had it last time, you just couldn't see it in the visiting room. I fell in the shower, broke a couple of fingers, and worsened the sprain. I'll be wearing a cast for a while."

"Thirteen told me you're on sick leave."

"Yes, I find it hard to sleep with the cast on and am too tired to work properly. Besides, this way I have more time to talk with your lawyer. But let's stop talking about me. How are you?"

"The detox is going very well. I'm now at little above half my original methadone dose, and I use Ibuprofen instead, plus physical therapy. And Dr. Nolan has met me twice. He's writing a report together with the court-appointed psychiatrist and the one you hired for me, saying that PPTH should have had me on suicide watch or at least requested a psych consult before allowing me to leave AMA. I might even get my license back, if nothing new… comes out."

House looked at Wilson. He knew they shouldn't speak about this, but he was worried about the forged signatures. That wasn't a crime like trying to murder four people, but it had been done when he was sound of mind and would be enough to lose him his license.

Wilson sighed, and seemed unable to really smile. Maybe because he was so tired. "That's great, House. I hope… I hope your detox ends soon."

House looked at him with surprise. "Is there some other problem, Wilson? Something else wrong with your life?"

"I… oh, it's nothing. I had to give away Sarah. You know, the cat. I couldn't very well take care of her one-handed."

"I'm sorry. Did you find a shelter?"

"No, one of the nurses." Wilson finally smiled a bit. "I actually had more than enough volunteers, Sarah's so cute."

"I think it's high time for you to be spending the nights with someone other than a cat, anyway."

This time there was definitely pain in Wilson's eyes. "I… I don't mind being alone, House. I've had so many failed relationships."

"Wilson, would you like me to, uh, touch your fingers again?" House hoped Wilson wouldn't remark the non sequitur. Or, worse, understand the connection.

Wilson nodded, and gave House his left hand.

"Oh yes, too bad you can't take off the cast, I'm sure your injured hand could use some comforting, too."

House avoided looking Wilson in the face, and concentrated on the hand between his. Too soon a knock on the door announced the visit was over. When he let the hand go, he tried looking at Wilson but he had hidden his face in a handkerchief, blaming hay fever.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Dr. Wilson."<p>

"Dr. Collins."

"I trust you're now familiar with our little routine."

"Dr. Collins, I… how far do you want to go with this?"

"As long as you'll let me, Dr. Wilson. You can stop it anytime you like."

"I know. But if I stop now, will you… will House keep his license?"

"This doesn't depend on me. But my promise of destroying the forged signatures only holds if you stay in this with me until the end."

"That's… another ten days."

"Yes." The gleam in Collins' eyes was unmistakable.

"I… I don't know that I can do that."

"You don't have to. I'm so pleased with you that I'll let him slow detox to the end even if you pull out this very moment."

"Really?" Wilson was tempted. He so much wanted to close this chapter of his life. Forget about Collins. Then his brain unhelpfully supplied an image of House nodding his assent to the deep brain stimulation. Of smiling faces of patients that House had saved from death.

"I… I will think about it. For tonight I think I'm good to go."

"Excellent, Dr. Wilson! I wish I could dare to hope that you will enjoy this evening as much as I will."

* * *

><p>When the door to his cell closed, House let out a sigh of relief, and tried to recall everything his lawyer had been telling him. He definitely had been uncharacteristically optimistic. Cuddy had accepted his written apology, and acknowledged that he couldn't really be held responsible for his actions. It now looked likely that PPTH's malpractice insurance would end up paying her damages, since they were a consequence of the lack of proper care. Even though she had had the restraining order rescinded, House knew he could never go back to working with her: neither he nor Cuddy could forget.<p>

Still, the situation wasn't bad, especially as compared to what it could have been: the detox was almost over, and he realized how much more clearly he could think now that Vicodin and alcohol abuse no longer clouded his judgement. If it weren't for the faked signatures, he would have good chances of being out of prison and into gainful employment again in a matter of weeks.

Apparently sharing his desire to avoid Cuddy, Wilson had resigned from PPTH and got himself a new job at Saint Sebastian's, starting with the coming month; he was negotiating with the Dean there the possibility of creating a diagnostic department with House at its head. If everything went well he would be able to work with Wilson again. And he had apparently forgiven him for the sprained wrist and… well, everything else.

Wilson. Wilson worried him. He briefly wondered whether he might be hiding some devastating sickness from him. An oncologist dying from cancer in his forties would be a very bad advertisement for Saint Sebastian's. Or maybe it was something psychological? Wilson had obviously been missing both food and sleep since House was in prison. Of course he was worried, and he had hinted at having to do unsavory stuff to give House a pain-free detox, but still… the man looked like he was in continuous pain, it was unclear whether physical or psychological.

Luckily the next day they were to meet again in person, for the last time in prison hopefully. House's pre-trial audience was scheduled for the following week, and if everything went as his lawyer expected he would be a free man after it.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, House."<p>

"Hi, Wilson."

"How's detox going?"

"Very well, actually. I have been opiate-free for two days now."

"Sounds great. My new boss has already scheduled a meeting with you. Apparently he has someone with insider info, and they said money is on you having your freedom and your license back in less than ten days."

"Wilson… give me your hand again, please."

Wilson blushed, but he didn't refuse. The small physical comfort helped him go through a life that had become a nightmare of pain. He wondered whether he could now understand House's repeated, desperate attempts to make that pain cease.

"Are you sick?"

"Uh… not that I know of, apart from the broken bones in my right hand."

"Wilson, I feel you're hiding something from me. You lost weight, and you look like you haven't slept a full night since I ended up here."

"Don't worry about me, House. I'll be fine. Just a bit of insomnia."

"I _am _worried. Wilson, I'm grateful to you. I… I care for you. Please. If there's a problem, we can face it together."

Wilson was tempted, but of course he couldn't speak. How he wished he could. On the other hand, there was something they could and should be talking about.

"House, how important is it for you to get your license back?"

House sighed. "I guess I should already feel happy that I'm going to get out of here, and have detoxed safely and painlessly. But… Wilson, my job is my life. I have no close connection with my mother, I will probably never be in a relationship again, and you've seen how many friends I have. All I have is my job, and you. And it's a miracle you're still there. That's why I'm so worried that you may be sick."

"House, don't worry. There may be something I'm keeping from you, but it's not serious, just something I'd rather not discuss where we can easily be overheard. I promise that it's not life-threatening."

_At least, I hope it isn't._

* * *

><p>Wilson was sitting on House's couch. He had removed the cast, and was looking at his right hand, trying to find the courage to touch the twisted fingers, comparing the healthy thumb and forefinger with the maimed rest. He told himself he didn't have to do this. He wouldn't even have to call or see Collins again: just call a taxi, and get driven to the nearest ER. Preferably one where no one knew him, and with a good surgeon. Although probably the small finger was beyond salvation. The dark hue near the nail looked suspiciously like a beginning of gangrene.<p>

He wasn't in pain at the moment - there was still morphine in his system, luckily he had stolen enough from the oncology ward before leaving PPTH. Being pain free was good for thinking, but it might lead him to some spectacularly stupid decision. And yet, what were the choices? He had heard that since the Diagnostics Department was headed by Foreman, the success rate had plummeted; slowly at first, than more decidedly the number of admissions had decreased as well. Chase had accepted a job in Sydney, Taub had gone back to cosmetic surgery. Hospital gossip was betting on Foreman moving to California with his old boss, and Diagnostics being officially closed at the end of the fiscal year.

Wilson thought of the many patients that only House had been able to save. Where would they go now? He got up and moved to the piano, no longer dusty after the cleaning up of the whole apartment. Maybe he should have had the piano tuned? At least the cleaning company had done a good job. House's lawyer had been sure: on Monday House would be able to sit on his couch, play his piano, sleep in his bed.

He opened the cover, sat down on the bench, and one-handedly played what he remembered of the easiest piano exercise of his childhood. Better him than House, he wouldn't miss playing the piano.

Better him than House.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Wilson? It's time. Yes or no. You do it, or you don't. Dr. House gets his medical license back, or he doesn't."<p>

"Can I trust you, Dr. Collins?"

"I gave you my word, and I'll give it again. Once this weekend is over, you will not hear from me again, and you'll be able to start your new job at Saint Sebastian's."

Wilson felt shivers going down his back. As he had done almost full-time for a month, he imagined his life with a physical handicap. No golf, a hard time cooking. Simple, everyday tasks becoming difficult. People looking at him with disgust and pity. Then he thought of House, of the rehab and the cane. Of more than a decade of pain. Of his face when he said "my job is my life". House trusted him; he wouldn't let him down.

"It's a yes, Dr. Collins."


	3. Chapter 3 of 3

**Chapter 3**

A ray of morning light filtered in. Monday. Soon it would be over. The pain was unbearable, but the thought of the nightmare ending filled Wilson with hope. He tried to imagine how good it would be to wake up in a bed with a morphine drip. He might even manage to call House's lawyer, find out how the process was going. He tried not to think about what lay between the current pain and the subsequent relief.

"Dr. Wilson? It's six thirty am. Are you glad it's almost over, or frightened by the last step?"

"Both, I think." Wilson realized he felt almost grateful to Collins for his kind question. Stockholm syndrome must be kicking in.

Collins' smile became a snicker. "You didn't really believe I would miss such a unique opportunity, right? You're not getting out of here anytime soon, Dr. Wilson. You're an idiot."

Wilson wanted to argue, to explain, but his bound limbs couldn't prevent the gag from forcing its way into his mouth.

* * *

><p>The pre-trial audience had begun. House whispered to his lawyer "Where's Wilson?"<p>

"I don't know. He had mentioned that he might be late, though."

* * *

><p>Wilson had lost contact with the droning voice reading aloud from the computer screen, his brain retreating from the horrors that were awaiting him.<p>

Then, all of a sudden, he noticed Collins wasn't speaking any more. He was moving around, collecting stuff, and when he turned to face him there was a look of pure pleasure in his face. "Are you ready, Dr. Wilson?"

The pain hit his forefinger, skyrocketed, filled his brain, spilled over through his eyes as tears, through the gag as an inhuman wail. His limbs tried to move, uselessly testing the restraints one more time. Collins laughed. And then pain moved to the thumb, and then to the forefinger again, and so on in a dance which ended only when a merciful darkness swallowed Wilson's mind.

* * *

><p>"Congratulations, Dr. House. You've been cleared of all charges, and I expect your medical license will be reinstated soon."<p>

House thanked his lawyer back, and was not surprised to see that Thirteen had been the only one of his former fellows to show up.

"I hope you have a drink ready for me, since you're so late." he told her as greeting.

"Sorry, I couldn't find the time. I spent the whole morning trying to get in touch with Wilson. He seems to have vanished; no one has seen him since he left the office Friday."

House did a double take. "What? Have you tried at his place?"

"I've been at his place and at yours, and I called Cuddy and his mother and all his ex-wives. You don't want to hear what Julie told me."

House was really worried now. And yet… there was someplace he could check. "Will you drive me to my place, please? It's urgent. And come with me, I may need someone who's not handicapped. At least not yet."

* * *

><p>Wilson suddenly could see House. Smiling, starting his new job at Saint Sebastian's, looking around at the new office, with his ball and his PSP handy. He felt tears of joy welling up in his eyes. He had succeeded. House was smiling too, and hugging him. "I love you, House. I love you, I've loved you so long, and now I can finally tell you." And House kissed him, and kissed him again, and then just held him tight.<p>

And yet, he couldn't really feel House in his arms. That must be the fever, he thought. He certainly had a fever. And then there was a rat eating his fingers. His fingers hurt. Why was that? Where had the rat come from? Why didn't House chase it away?

* * *

><p>House had Thirteen climb up and retrieve the box which used to contain the morphine. When he opened it the drug was gone, probably taken away by the police when they searched his place. But the box wasn't empty: there was a message, hastily scribbled on a sheet from Wilson's prescription pad, in the almost illegible scrawl he was all too familiar with. An address, a date and time. The previous Friday, eight pm: sixty-six hours ago.<p>

He asked Thirteen to drive, his hands were shaking too much. They stopped on the way and only Thirteen got out. When she came back, she had two loaded revolvers. House didn't ask questions.

* * *

><p>The first thing Wilson noticed was that the gag was gone. The fever was lower, too, and the pain not so intense. Someone was pushing ice chips in his mouth. He sucked the cool relief greedily. Saved. Finally.<p>

Then he opened his eyes, and Collins was staring at him, drinking in his disappointment.

"Hello, Dr. Wilson, good to know the acetaminophen is working. I was waiting for you to be conscious again, you don't want to miss the best of the party."

Wilson forced his parched throat to form words. Tried to think of something that would make sense. "Please… call an ambulance… call 911… I'll say nothing… I'll say I agreed… please…"

"Be quiet, now. I'm the doctor and I'll do what is best for you. See?"

Wilson looked with horror at the surgical saw, the steel glistening. "We're going to have fun together. Or at least, I'm going to have fun. I'll start with the distal phalanx of the pinky, what do you think?"

The steel touched the dark grey skin. And then started moving. Wilson screamed and screamed and screamed. But no one answered, except the sound of the saw on his bone and Collins' pitiless laughter.

* * *

><p>"Wilson. Open your eyes, Wilson. I know you're awake."<p>

House. House's voice. This must be a pain-induced hallucination again. A good one, since he could feel no pain. In fact, it reminded him of when he had been given morphine post-op after the liver donation. House had been there, as well. That's it, he was hallucinating a memory. And what a happy memory.

"Wilson. Answer me, please."

A hand touching his. He tried to move his fingers in response.

"Good. Now try and open your eyes, won't you?"

He took a while to focus. He closed his eyes, opened them again. He was in a bed. With bedclothes. He wasn't tied up anywhere. And the face looking at him was House.

He tried to speak, but he only managed a very faint "House…" before his brain switched off again.

* * *

><p>Senior Officer Betty Cho met Dr. House in a tiny office in the hospital, close to Dr. Wilson's room.<p>

He looked irritable when he came in, and sat like he wanted to bolt out again fast. "I hope I'll be able to go back to Wilson soon. I want to be there when he wakes up again."

"Certainly, Dr. House. But there are things I ought to tell you, and I couldn't do it over the phone."

House seemed surprised but didn't say anything. Officer Cho sighed.

"Dr. House, we know you forged Dr. Wilson's signature on a large number of Vicodin scripts. The PA has agreed not to prosecute you."

"Did I win the accused lottery? Because it's not my birthday."

"No, Dr. House. He did it at my request. We found complete evidence of Dr. Collins' criminal activities, and we'll make sure a number of former inmates will be paid damages. Collins is dead, but the prison system allowed him too much leeway."

"So it's gratitude?"

"Yes. And respect for… for Dr. Wilson. He's the only one of Dr. Collins' victims to have been a volunteer, and hence the only one he could torture so thoroughly. And keep a complete video record of." Officer Cho had seen many horrors in her thirty years of work, but nothing had prepared her for what she had found on Collins' laptop. The man was a full-blown sadist, to a level she wouldn't have thought humanly possible.

"What happened to Wilson? The orthopedic surgeon who operated on him refused to answer my questions."

"Are you sure you want to know this?"

"I'm his medical proxy. I may have to take decisions based on it, so long as he's unconscious."

Cho sighed. "He got three of the fingers in his right hand broken, three times a week for one month. Collins removed the cast, played with the broken fingers, broke each of them once more, and gave him a similar-looking cast. Sometimes he also played with the freshly-broken fingers."

House had turned very white. Cho kindly asked "Do you also want to know what happened last weekend? You maybe shouldn't."

"I… I saw some of it. But not all. I want to know."

"Collins spent most of the weekend 'playing' with the broken fingers, particular after the gangrene started to develop. He had agreed with Wilson that he would amputate the middle, ring and pinky fingers on Monday in the early morning and leave him at an ER."

"Wilson had agreed… to this?"

"Yes. Broken bones for the slow detox, and three amputated fingers for destroying the forged signatures and saving your medical license. On Monday morning he told Wilson what he planned to do, then broke his thumb and forefinger. Repeatedly. When you arrived he had sawn off all the distal phalanges and the middles ones of two more fingers as well. You don't want to know what Collins' plans for Wilson were, but he had them filed on his laptop: they lasted for a full further week, and your friend would have probably welcomed death at the end."

House started crying. Sobbing loudly and shamelessly, his muscular shoulders bent and shivering. His face, which Cho supposed might otherwise be considered handsome, seemed to belong to a much older man. And at the same time, he inexplicably reminded her of a child, a child heartbroken by the suffering of a very close relative or friend. She resisted the unexpected impulse to pet him, and waited instead until he was able to regain some composure.

When the sobbing ceased, House lifted his eyes but didn't try to dry or hide away the tears.

"Dr. House, I have a very personal question to ask you. It would be very important that you answer sincerely, because there's some information which I'm not sure I should give you. What are your feelings for Dr. Wilson? How close are you to him?"

House looked at her like he was trying to pull information out of her eyes. Finally, he just said "I've been considering this question for a long month in prison. He's been a close friend for many years. I used to think of myself as straight. But now… I wonder whether there's something more."

"You wonder, or you know?"

"I…I don't know. But please tell me anything that might help me help Wilson."

Cho thought that she saw more than friendship in the dark-ringed eyes: she hoped she didn't let her wishes lead her astray.

* * *

><p>He opened his eyes, and his head felt clear. He had no pain, no fever. For the first time.<p>

"Good morning, Wilson."

"Hi," he said and immediately started coughing.

"Here, drink some water. It's good to have you back."

The sun was shining outside, and Wilson's brain was working. "What day is today?"

"Monday. You've been here one week, but I imagine you can't remember any of it. Here would be at Saint Sebastian's, by the way. Wilson, how could you let Collins do this to you?"

Wilson's pale face flushed. "How do you know?"

House couldn't resist; he took Wilson's right arm between his hands, and started massaging the naked skin, from the rim of the hospital gown to the gauze around the wrist.

"Collins kept videos of every moment he spent with you. You saved my sanity, my freedom and my license, Wilson. And I wish you hadn't. Not at this price."

Wilson looked at his thick bandages. "How much of my hand is still there?"

"You have two large stubs of the thumb's and forefinger's proximal phalanges, and a small one of the middle finger's. Unfortunately, not only are the ring and small finger completely gone, but a large part of the corresponding metacarpal bones had to be removed as well, since necrosis had already started. You were on the brink of death for several days. I'm sorry, Wilson."

"It's not your fault, House. What happened exactly? All I can recall are Thirteen and you suddenly being there, and then shooting and screams."

House drew a deep breath. Delaying the truth would serve no purpose. "Thirteen and I saved you. Collins shot and killed her, after she wounded him. I shot and killed him."

"Oh my God, House, it's all my fault."

"Wilson, it was her choice - we could have saved her without the DNR. Her disease was progressing. She insisted that I hide behind her, said she would be dying soon anyway."

* * *

><p>"Dr. House, you can come back in."<p>

He let Cho get out, and closed the door behind her before going to sit near the bed.

"So, you had a cosy chat?" Wilson looked perkier than twenty minutes before.

"Officer Cho confirmed that it worked. That you'll keep your license because… because of me." His eyes glanced at the stub, and there was a desperate pride in them.

"Yes, and we'll be colleagues here at Saint Sebastian. I… I don't know what to say, Wilson. What you did was unbelievably generous. And unbelievably crazy and dangerous. How can I ever pay you back?"

Wilson looked past House. "Just say you'll never relapse again. Please."

"It only depends on you. You see, I relapsed so badly because the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with dumped me."

"So?"

"So, if you want to avoid me relapsing, it's enough you never dump me." House's left hand was on Wilson's right arm again, and this time his long fingers went searching the softest skin: under the armpit, then down until the inside of the elbow, and further to the point where he could feel Wilson's pulse by sneaking one finger below the bandage.

Wilson didn't shake him off: instead, he brought House's right hand to his lips, and gave it a feathery soft, chaste kiss. Then he let go, his thumb lingering for a moment on the veins sticking out on the hand's back.

"House, you don't have to do this. I… I just did what I felt was right."

"I know. But you would like to be with me, wouldn't you? I'm sorry, Wilson, but the police told me." House's fingers kept tracing Wilson's inner arm.

"Told you what?" House could feel Wilson ever so slightly shivering under his touch, leaning into House's hand.

"That after sixtysomething hours of torture you started hallucinating me. And you said you loved me, which is precisely what Thirteen had told me while she drove me to search for you."

Without breaking his hold on the wounded limb, House left the visitor's chair and sat on the hospital bed, pushing the long legs aside: he then took Wilson's torso in his arms, pressing his face on his chest and caressing his hair. He felt tears wet his shirt, Wilson's left hand clutching at his bare forearm. He held him close until the crying ceased, then moved him gently away and wiped away the tears, while Wilson looked at him with a mixture of hope and incredulity. He kissed Wilson on the forehead, then pushed his head to his own chest again, so that he could hear how fast House's heart was beating.

"You're scared." Wilson's voice was almost inaudible.

"I am. I'm terribly afraid of screwing this up, Wilson."

Wilson lifted his face to look at House, and there was so much evidence of past pain in his eyes that House found it difficult to look back into them.

"House, do you… do you love me?"

There was no point saying anything but the truth. "I don't know. I thought I loved Cuddy, and Stacy before her, and yet I was never as happy with either of them as I am with you. I never was attracted to men before and we will have to take this slowly from a physical viewpoint. But what I said is true: you're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. And not just as a friend."

Wilson looked dejected.

"How do you even know you'll enjoy sex with me at all? House, your orientation isn't something you can change at will."

House smiled, his right hand threading fingers with Wilson's left, his left sliding to softly circle the bandaged stump. "I really like to hold your hands."


End file.
